


A Wolfean Carole

by WaltD



Category: Nero Wolfe - Rex Stout
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 06:24:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaltD/pseuds/WaltD
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Dickens story</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Wolfean Carole

**A Wolfean Carole** W Doherty

        "You seem very mellow this evening, sir," I said to his great rotundity, Nero Wolfe, who was sitting behind his desk in the only chair he was ever really comfortable in.

        "A meal such as Fritz prepared this evening . . . that stuffed pheasant was superb. I really should compliment him on the use of 5 juniper berries in the stuffing. I was certain it would spoil the taste, but it really brought out the piquancy of the flesh . . . . A Christmas dinner to remember! Ah . . . ."

        I thought this would be the best time ever to ask for a raise, but I was feeling more than a little mellow myself, especially with the Remisier brandy warming the cockles of my innards, so I decided to put it off to another occasion.

        "You know, Archie, I don't usually discuss salaries at this time of year.”

        What? I thought. This isn't like him. He doesn't discuss salaries at any time of year unless Fritz, our chief cook and bottle washer, Theodore, the Orchid nursemaid, or I force the issue, and he sure isn't a real mind reader,

        "But the successes of the past year, the sufficiency of the bank account, this remarkable brandy, I believe bonuses are appropriate if not actual raises."

        I thought to myself that I must be dreaming.

        "That and a dream I had many years ago make me particularly fond of Christmas although I don't usually admit this to anyone within hearing."

        The brandy which had warmed my soul must have affected my hearing as well as my alertness quotient; I was having trouble following his after dinner "per-oration" (my Aunt Milly, the Latin teacher had clued me in to that phrase when I talked with her just before Christmas to find out what I could get my mother in Ohio for a present this year).

        Although Wolfe's speeches, or at least his dinner conversation, were usually well worth listening to, tonight I just couldn't focus. It seemed that he droned on and on and in the most affable mood I've ever seen him in. If his hair had been white, I'd have sworn I was listening to Santa Clause and he was bringing us all Christmas bonuses as presents!

        This is what I *thought* he told me: 

 

        Many years ago, before he hired me or I signed on to work with him, take your pick as to what happened, he had inherited the Brownstone (or picked it up in some deal with the Austrian government - I've heard the tale a couple of times and it's never quite the same twice), had been living in it a few years while plying the "consulting detective" business on his own.  It was no joy because he still even then refused to leave the house on business. This, of course, made it very difficult to carry on as a detective because he didn't have me to go pick up and deliver clients and witnesses.

        He managed through his embassy and international contacts (Hey, I'm not using it as a verb here, so be quiet.  Wolfe's the wordsmith, not me.), plus there was a police lieutenant who would forward clients every once in a while and sometimes even "consulted" on some unsolved crime. (My cousin Eddie Goodwin, he's the one who actually suggested I see Wolfe about a job. He was Insp. Cramer's predecessor at the 20th. I'm never sure whether or not he did me a favor with that.)

        Well, to cut a long story short, it was just before Christmas; business wasn't going well, he was in debt, he was unhappy over experiences in the war, friends he had lost, all that sort of thing, he was feeling extremely discomfited - his word, I'd have said "lousy". He'd failed with the latest referral from the police and Goodwin was wondering if he should keep sending people to him, a big client had stiffed him his fee, and a lady friend had given him the cold shoulder (like I believed *that*, but it could have happened.  The one time he talked about it before, he said her name was Bess, and that she was quite the figure at some of the society parties of the time which is why I don't believe a word of it. Can you see Wolfe escorting a flapper to a soiree?)

        In addition, it had been just over a year that his previous partner/assistant/gofer had quit in a pique and gone off to Mexico. His name was Beirce and I understand he was quite witty, but nothing like me of course.

        He said he'd had a particularly bad day. Some colleagues from the New York Detective Society had approached him for a donation. This bothered him because he didn't have any funds to contribute, and he'd had an execrable meal at Schraft's (Fritz was still cooking at Delmonico's), and he'd had to come back to the Brownstone: his furniture wasn't there yet - plus he couldn't afford to get the stuff out of the Embassy warehouse and he was just paying the storage fees. And his cleaning lady had quit; she was tired of working for slave wages and then not getting paid. And, no Fritz, no me - that's enough to depress anyone, no Theodore either, but I consider that a blessing.

        After fixing himself a simple cup of tea, he sat in the one chair he was comfortable in (which was in the bedroom, the other rooms being essentially empty). He (Wolfe) said that he nodded off, but always wondered whether he actually experienced what he related or if it was really just a dream. 

 

        There was a knock on the bedroom door which opened and in walked the now dead Beirce! 

        "Nero Mycroft Wolfe! Listen to me: do not be dispirited, you will be visited by three spirits in the course of this evening who will show you that you have a life to lead and things to take care of, that you have no reason to despair!"  And then disappeared in a puff of smoke.

        "Hmmmpff" grunted Wolfe; that dinner at Schraft's! "I'm going to bed."

        Shortly after, a terrible banging began on the front door.  Wolfe shouted down to go away, but the banging continued. So he went down and opened the door. Standing there was his friend Marko.

        "What the blazes are you doing here! The last I heard you were hiding out in some small town in Ohio of all places!."

        "May I come in, Nero? It is late and it is cold."

        "Oh, of course. Excuse the place, life hasn't been easy the past year."

        They went into the kitchen, and Wolfe reheated the tea.

        "Actually, my friend, I came to talk to you. A friend of yours, a man named Bierce? told me you were feeling low and unhappy and that I should come to cheer you up. Remind you of the happy Christmases we shared in Montenegro."

        Wolfe nodded, but kept his comments to himself.

        "The best times were during the war. You, me, the others in our group. Cold and hungry around the miserable, poor camp fire. A mean place but the warmth of friends . . . .”

        Wolfe smiled inwardly at the thoughts. They were good people and he missed the ones who had died.

        "But Marco, to come all the way from Ohio? What of your wife? You leave her on Christmas eve?"

        Wolfe turned to grab the whistling tea kettle and pour Marko a cup. When he turned to offer the tea to Marko, the room was empty.

        "Marko! Marko!" What the devil?" 

        After checking the downstairs and finding no one there, he walked back up to the bedroom (Hmmmmm. Someday I'm going to get an elevator in here, he thought to himself; I've climbed too many mountains to have to put up with this.)  What was that all about, he thought. Marko couldn't have been here, but if not, who was that?

        He got back into bed and thought warmly of the Christmases long ago in his homeland as he fell asleep again.  

 

        Knock! knock!  Bam, bam, bam. The door again.

        "What it is NOW?" he said to himself while going down to the door.

        "Who is it? What do you want?"

        "Nero! Open the door. It's Bess."

        "Bess! Come in out of the cold. Come into the Kitchen; I've already got tea brewing. What's the problem?"

        Oh, Nero. I just needed to talk with you. It's Christmas and I've missed you."

        "You're not really here, are you, Bess?" he said.

        "No," the image replied, as it wavered and turned into a jolly looking man, rather like an image by Thomas Nast, but whether it was Boss Tweed or Saint Nick, he wasn't sure.

        "I just wanted to show you that Bess was fine, you needn't worry about her. Marko is well also.

        "Was that you, too?"

        "No, but neither was it Marko."

        "So, what else is there to see. I suppose that YOU are the ghost of the present?"

        "Yes . . . ."

        And he showed Wolfe pleasant scenes of Christmas life and parties throughout Manhattan: a young police lieutenant and his wife at a 20th precinct party, the cheerful goings on a Delmonico's where the master chef was creating culinary masterpieces.

        But then, the down side of the era: the New York Detective Society was holding a holiday party for the homeless children from the Bowery. The boys were real cut-ups, but they appreciated the gestures the PI's made. 

        A young man was guarding a pier on a dark, lonely Christmas eve. Trouble was brewing, the piers were a dangerous place, even the cops feared going there these days.

        "Fear and Ignorance are the most dangerous foes," the spirit said. Shots rang out and the scene faded as Wolfe thought he saw Eddie Goodwin run into the warehouse on the pier shouting, "Archie! Are you all right?"

        "Wait," said Wolfe, "What happened there?"

        "Oh," said the spirit, "Are you concerned about these people? Have you regained your zest for life?"

        "I've never lost it, you ignoramus. Everyone has their doubts at one time or another. What happened to Eddie and that young man?"

        The fog swirled about the spirit and Wolfe, the scene dissolving with no resolution. No answer was to be forthcoming apparently.

 

        Wolfe found himself sitting upright on his bed. Well, that was an experience he thought. A lot of humbug, I suspect. What's next? Not more banging on the door, I hope, he said to himself as he went down to the kitchen to fix more tea. 

        The back door blew open with a loud BANG!

        "Now, what?"

        Nothing came in.

        This is more complicated than it seems. "Nothing" actually came in. It was a void, a swirling hole in the air.

        "And what do *you* want to show me - I suppose that you are whatever is next in this campaign to convince me that life has more for me to do."

        Nothing was said, but a vision formed in the middle of the swirl: the cleaning lady who had quit earlier that day was sobbing. The nice strawberry-blond young man who rented a room from her was in the hospital. He had been shot while working at the piers. She wasn't sure he was going to pull through. That scene faded and an elderly gentleman was seen selling the last of his flowers to a grower. The pittance he received would be enough to last a few weeks, but the hybrid he had developed would have someone else's name attached. What was he going to do? The next scene was at Delmonico's. Chef Brenner was storming out--the owners had insisted he use fewer juniper berries in his pheasant stuffing. It was the last straw. He left for Europe where he eventually ran afoul of the Nazi's and died in a prison camp.

        Wolfe was pale and appalled!

        "Must this happen, spirit? Is there nothing to be done to alter these people's fates? That poor young man, he's just starting out, and to lose a good orchidist and a superb chef!"

        Nothing was said. 

        "Well, it's not so much I care what the dickens happens to me, but these people must be helped. Shut the door on your way out!"

        The door shut with another loud BANG! causing Wolfe to sit up straight in bed. He had fallen asleep again.

        Was this just another dream, or was it a vision of some sort. He noted that the bedroom clock registered six a.m.  Time to get moving

 

        Wolfe went downstairs to the office where there was a small desk, a plain chair and a phone. He called his police friend Eddie Goodwin and asked after his young cousin who had come to town from Ohio recently. He was shocked to hear he had been injured in a shoot out at the piers the previous evening.  Wolfe told Eddie to make contact with a Doctor Volmer, one of Wolfe's neighbors. The doctor was a top-flight surgeon and Wolfe would handle all the bills. He also told Eddie to send the man (boy, really) over to him as soon as he felt well enough to get around, that Wolfe would have a job for him that would be better suited to his talents. He then called the client who was trying to stiff him for the work he had done.  He informed the client that the fee had now been tripled and that he *would* pay or suffer the consequences; those of exposure of a foolishness a bigwig businessman shouldn't have allowed himself to fall into. When he complained of blackmail, Wolfe said the problem he had had was cleared up, that Wolfe was an honorable man and that this payment was both legitimate and proper. The client agreed to deliver the payment in cash from the Seaboard bank the next day. Then Wolfe called Volmer himself and arranged for the young man to be treated

        Next, he wrote to Marko telling him to get to New York. Wolfe was going to back him in a restaurant, and a fine old one was for sale, the owner, a certain Rusterman, had recently died and the family wasn't interested in it. He wrote to Theodore Horstmann that he would agree to salary they had discussed and that any hybrids that he (Horstmann) developed would carry his (Horstmann's) name although Wolfe would own them. He next sent for Fritz Brenner and made him an offer he couldn't refuse. Then he made arrangements for the furniture and other accoutrements to be delivered out of storage, contacted the Otis company for a bid on a private elevator, and thus the Brownstone as we know it came to pass.

 

        "I suppose you didn't know I had paid your hospital bill, did you, Archie. Archie, are you listening? Archie! ARCHIE!" 

        "ARCHIE!!"

        "Wha'? What? What?"

        "You are about to drop the remnants of your brandy on the floor. Put it up and go to bed. Obviously reading Charles Dickens 'A Christmas Carol' to you is a waste of both our times. At least Fritz and Theodore here appreciated it. 

        "Come to my room tomorrow morning before nine. I'll have some instructions for the shipment of orchids from Lewis Hewitt for you."

         Well, with a few more visions in my head other than sugarplums, I went up the stairs wondering just what it was I had been listening to. At least I know we all got a healthy, Christmas bonus (even Saul and Fred) because I write the checks. So let the 'potamus think he read Dickens. I just wonder what did I hear that night? I swear as I was climbing the stairs I heard a small voice in the distance say "God bless us, everyone!" It was too young to be Wolfe, but dammit, it *sounded* like him.   
  
  
  
  



End file.
